50 Times Quinn Fabray Fell For Rachel Berry
by Revok
Summary: A collection of one shots / drabbles based on my iTunes shuffle.
1. You Be the Anchor

_1. You Be the Anchor That Keeps My Feet on the Ground, I'll Be the Wings That Keep Your Heart in the Clouds - Mayday Parade_

She's thirteen years old, and her knees sink into the pew with practiced ease.

The guilt tugs dangerously at her shoulders, a golden bowed head deep in thought and prayer. Yesterday she saw Rachel Berry. Yesterday she watched the sway of her hips as her plaid skirt fluttered around tanned thighs as she struggled to reach her locker.

Today, she was here to repent and, if she had to, carve the verse into her skin if it would remind her to keep her eyes in line next time.

Quinn knows the verse.

She knows because on the first day of kindergarten, tiny and vulnerable and clutching onto her dad's hand like a lifeline, she watched her father's face morph into something hard, something _unforgiving,_ as two men, hand in hand, led a vivacious and bubbly little girl into her classroom.

She remembers never being so intrigued in her life before then.

She also remembers feeling horrified as her daddy explained over dinner that the family of three would burn in hell _forever._

Forever, Quinn thought, was a long time to punish the brown eyed girl who was very pretty, actually, even if Quinn learned quickly she didn't know how to be quiet, or nap during nap time.

She's twisting uncomfortably now, as if people are staring at her, even if she knows they aren't. They wouldn't be able to tell, would they? You can't tell someone's - someone's _that way,_ just by looking at them.

At least, Quinn hopes. She prays. The idea of her stomach doing unpleasant flips around Rachel isn't something she wants on public display. Isn't something she wants, _period._ She knows she's going to need to stop lingering in the girl's locker room, because Rachel likes to sing when she thinks she's alone and Quinn maybe kind of thinks it's the most amazing sound in the world.

Her eyes are screwed shut, tight against the hot burning against the very edges, threatening to spill over, threatening to become proof, something tangible and _real, _that this is something she can't deal with on her own. God had always listened when her parents didn't, so this, this whole thing, running to church as soon as the seventh period bell rang? It should help.

It doesn't. Quinn swallows painfully and her lips barely move as she tries to say something, _anything._ The words aren't coming and maybe this is what causes her to break, causes her shuddering and heaving and tears and oh, God - _why? _Why her? Quinn doesn't think she deserves this. She's a good kid. She doesn't want to go to hell. She's pretty sure she doesn't want Rachel to, either.

She just wants - and maybe that's her problem, she _wants_ too much - to feel normal, but the kind of normal every story or hymn or TV show she's been exposed to says. Quinn can't bring it to herself to admit what she's feeling for Rachel Berry definitely _feels _normal, but the kind of normal that's not supposed to be.

The girl is just so conflicted and, and _confused_, yes, that's the word, and as her sobs fall to a close she knows God _needs_ to say something, just this once. And suddenly it's okay that when her favorite aunt Martha died that He didn't say anything then, and it's okay when her dad lashes out when he's had too much wine, He doesn't say anything. She needs Him to say something_ now, _to tell her it's okay, it'll _pass, _like all feelings of grief and hopelessness.

The church is hot and stifling and _silent_. Quinn shakily rises on her own two feet, trembling, and despite having insisted to her parents just last week she was old enough to be treated like, like an adult or whatever, she doesn't think she'll _ever_ be old enough to deal with this. There's no one to help, either.

Quinn feels like_ He_ might be just as unsure as she is - is it possible God doesn't know how some things turn out, either?

Because she can't imagine who _does _know if everything is going to be okay.


	2. I Wanna Hold Your Hand

_2. I Wanna Hold Your Hand - Across The Universe Cover_

The first time Quinn holds Rachel's hand, she knows there are at least a dozen other things she could be watching.

Kurt, for instance, however much he was originally ruffled at the idea of _sitting on the grass, like some Neanderthal,_ is now sleepily resting his head on Finn's broad shoulder. The football player has an expression of content, and Quinn can't tell if it's their new sibling bond or what have you - but she's glad the two made amends.

Or maybe Mr. Schue, who was the original person that decided to take all the Glee kids out to see 4th of July fireworks, who has his arms wrapped so snugly around Ms. Pillsbury that it would be illegal if it wasn't nauseatingly sweet. The blond is sure the counselor's doting Bambi eyes are something that's never going fade from her when it comes to the Spanish teacher, and she wonders a little if devotion really does pay off.

She could also be scanning across the field for any sign of Artie and Tina - but Quinn figures it's a lost cause, and, well, it'd be kind of redundant if _she_ was bothering _them _about safe sex. Still, she can't imagine tree bark and leaves in uncomfortable places the best choice for a not so secret rendezvous.

Santana's lying down and staring up at the sky, head in Brittany's lap as she lets her hair be stroked and combed through by gentle hands. Even from a good eight feet away she can hear the Cheerio murmur that Santana has really soft hair, _like duck fluff,_ and Quinn bites down on her lip to fight her smile at her words. From Santana's quiet reply and instinct she knows the two have locked pinkies now, and she feels an almost rude spectator to their private moment.

Mercedes is laughing jovially to something Matt has said, but a quick lewd comment from Puck makes her narrow her eyes and the boy ducks his head almost shamefully - or as shamefully as Puck can muster. There's something about the girl's demeanor (or _swag,_ as Artie said once) that just draws people in to her voice, and when Mike places his letterman jacket on her shoulders as the breeze around them picks up - Quinn realizes in that moment how far _everyone _has come.

She could be paying attention to all of those things, reveling in awe at this group of misfits that have become something very much like a family, like a home. Quinn thinks she might even love them, too, just a little bit. But she's not ready to say it just yet.

But right now, dusty jeans painted with grass stains on the knees and a certain brunette nervously chattering away _the legalities and penalties rewarded to miscreants that indulge in illegal fireworks_ - Quinn Fabray can't think of anything else she'd rather watch when Rachel abruptly shuts up and lets out a small squeak of surprise mixed in with wonder as the first rocket shoots up into the sky, launching an array of colors and shades and _yeah,_ Quinn thinks, _this _is _pretty amazing._

Quinn watches Rachel jump every time a new spark bursts into the air, because while everything's exciting and cool, the noise is startling no matter how many times she's seen it. But every time still feels like the first, like she's four years old with a dazzling sparkler in her hand while her dads stand by in adoration.

"Rach?" She's not sure if she can hear her over all the sounds as Puck suddenly shouts from a distance, _Did that or did that not look like a pair of boobs? Guys!_

"Y-oh!" Rachel blinks away the imprint of fireworks on her eyelids as she looks over at Quinn. "Yes?"

"Are you, like, scared of fireworks?" Quinn realizes a second too late she makes it seem like she's taunting the other girl, so she hastens to clear her throat and finish before Rachel can answer. "Cause, I mean - I could, like, hold your hand. If you want."

Quinn's staring at the patch of grass near her left foot and the silence just seems stifling as it goes on and on, until -

"Do you_ want_ to hold my hand, Quinn?" Her tone is oddly professional, even for Rachel Berry, and Quinn's almost positive that can't be good.

She keeps looking away, though, now tossing her golden hair away from her face as she looks determinedly to the skies. "I just don't want you shrieking all over the place. Sylvester has like, bat hearing or something, and she'd drive over here to bust us all." Quinn works very hard to sound flippant and annoyed, and she thinks it works for a second. That second ends way too fast.

"I want to hold your hand, too, Quinn."

But when Rachel lightly touches her hand and fills the gaps between her fingers perfectly, Quinn knows this night could stretch for years and it would still be too fast for her.

She watches Rachel smile and light up at the fireworks for the rest of the evening, memorizing every flash of color reflected in her eyes.


	3. Say

[The lines are meant to be breaks, because I guess ff net doesn't like dashes. Also, I cheated and added in another song, but the overall message is more the John Mayer song shuffle gave me, and the Brittany in my head _made _me, okay?]

_3. Say - John Mayer_

When Glee practice is void of the voice that constantly makes Quinn roll her eyes for over the top theatrics, she glances around furtively. Finn is looking like a beaten puppy while Puck is glaring daggers as if daring him to speak. Everyone else appears in varying degrees of worry - creased foreheads and whispered murmurs alike - and Rachel? Rachel's not there at all, and suddenly there's a fierce jab to her lungs, like all the air has been punched out.

Their singing isn't the joint harmony it usually is, and when Mr. Schue stares hard (like he's trying to be stern, Quinn thinks, but the tug of a frown and concerned eyes gives him away) at the group, everyone just falls silent completely.

It's kind of pissing Quinn off, actually, because_ guess what, this is Glee club,_ where mouths run faster than Artie's wheelchair propelled by a fire extinguisher (the boys wanted to give it a try, and he was only too willing to feel like the world's next paraplegic superhero until he realized he didn't have brakes). The buzz of gossip is something she just _expects,_ so she feels a rush of affection when Mr. Schue seems prepared to pull teeth to get answers.

"Guys, _what _is going on?" She waits on a held breath.

She has to release it just as soon, however, because no one's decided to answer him. Quinn throws her hands up in the air dramatically, mumbling about lousy gossipers and some other indignant self righteousness before exiting the room with a huff. Mr. Schue stares after her, dumb founded.

"I think she's taking after Rachel, I'd give that diva walk out an eight on a scale of ten," Kurt quips.

Glee practice ends early that afternoon as Mr. Schuester excuses the kids to their weekend, minding them to behave and consider maybe doing a good deed.

Brittany is way ahead of him as she drags an unwilling Santana to rehearse on a_ Friday._ She only agrees at the promise of sex on Brittany's piano later.

* * *

When Quinn spots Rachel come Monday morning, rummaging through her usually immaculate locker with no amount of grace, she knows something is wrong.

And it's not because she_ cares_ about the girl or anything (it's RuPaul, after all) that she walks up to her without much hesitation and says, "Look, Berry, is something up? Because on the pamphlet you made everyone, you explicitly said missing practice was a sign of the impending apocalypse, and, well, you're still here." Quinn keeps the_ sadly_ to herself, partly because she's trying to make an effort here by acknowledging her in public, and partly because the look on her face is already so timid it's doing funny things to her stomach. Like nausea, almost, except not.

As Rachel shakes her head in a nonverbal reply, she clenches her jaw, stiff and immobile. And it's almost like things have gone back to normal, except Quinn knows Rachel's terrified of something that's _not _the ex-Cheerio, and she's kind of over this whole shady business, like, yesterday.

So she walks away and ignores the press of weight on her chest that tells her to turn back, because if Berry didn't want to talk, she didn't want to talk.

And Quinn was fine with that, as long as she still sang. They can't win regionals this year without her, and she's aware enough to realize her world and Rachel's not coexisting together is just something that isn't right, like Cheerios and eating. She_ needs_ her, not as a friend or anything_ stupid,_ but just needs her around. Like a thorn in her side she's gotten used to, or something.

* * *

At lunch, when Brittany slides into a seat opposite Rachel's lone table, bubbly and bright and just _Brittany,_ Quinn thinks she might have a heart attack.

Especially when a grouchy looking Santana sits beside her and looks at her with a disgruntled expression that's akin to Ms. Pillsbury that one day she ran out of hand sanitizer. She thinks Santana looks less faint, though, so that's a plus. She's unconsciously leaning forward in her seat even though they're several tables over, and she almost growls at Finn when he sets his tray down in front of her, smiling cordially even if his eyes look a little red around the edges.

But it's Finn, and even when he's blocking her view to the most surprising event in Lima all year so far, she loved him once upon a time so she lets him make small talk. He deserves at least her friendship, Quinn's sure, for all she's done.

* * *

"So you're gay for Fabray."

Rachel is suddenly very glad and very thankful her parents ensured she had the biological make up of steel when it came to her physical health, so she doesn't fall over or, like, _pass out_ at this idea she's being presented with. She stares from Brittany to Santana, who's examining her fingernails with bored interest.

"You have feelings for Quinn," Brittany says again brightly, trying a different angle this time, like Rachel's slow on the up take; her ponytail bobs in sync with her head as she nods fervently, "and I know how you can tell her." Tell... Quinn... what?

"N-no," stammers Rachel, shaking her head as she risks a quick glance to the blond in question, and there's a distinct fall in her shoulders at the sight of her engaged in conversation with Finn, "I mean - that's very well admirable of you, Brittany, but I assure you - "

Brittany's smile is faltering from her face and Santana shoots her a _look._

Rachel suddenly picks at her apple and stares down at her lap. "When do we start?"

Brittany's flash of white teeth nearly blind her with all their radiance when she looks up, and Santana looks satisfied.

She thinks she can go crawl in a hole and die now, thanks.

* * *

"... and then she like, gets up and says _sorry_, like my heart doesn't like,_ hurt_ or anything. I mean..." Finn looks away from his burger, which he's picked to pieces by now from punctuating his moods with a plastic fork, and shoots Quinn pleading eyes. She's a_ girl,_ and yeah, while Rachel might be a class of girl all on her own, he thinks she might understand better than he does. "I don't get it."

And Quinn's_ trying_ to understand, she really is, but her mind keeps wandering back to his earlier words. _She says it's someone else. _So what the hell was Berry all mute for? She was practically foaming at the mouth with serenades every two seconds when she was courting Finn last year, so it just doesn't make sense.

"Quinn?"

Huh? She looks up apologetically.

"I just..." the jock seems to deflate a tiny bit, and Quinn is overwhelmed with sympathy for the moment as he adds, "I just hope he treats her right. This guy doesn't know how lucky he has it." They both steal glances as Rachel gets up to throw away her trash, Brittany and Santana locking pinkies closely behind. The look on her face is hesitant somehow, but she smiles shyly at the two cheerleaders and Quinn feels lightheaded out of nowhere.

"Yeah," she murmurs, sounding dazed, "I bet."

* * *

She's not sure why for the rest of the day Rachel seems happier, if not a little anxious at the same time, and Brittany keeps staring openly at her in class as Santana has to force her to look away and hiss inaudible reminders of _stop giving it away, Britt._

But Rachel's smiling again, and Quinn figures that's all that matters.

* * *

The rest of the week flies by in normal routine and by Friday, Quinn's all but forgotten her dispute with Rachel when she receives a text from an unknown number during seventh period. _yearbook wants glee pics afterschool. dont b late._

Amiable, but slightly confused because she was sure the yearbook editors were pretty anal about schedules and timing and preset dates or whatever, Quinn packs up her binder and makes her way toward the music room.

It's dark and everything is sheathed in black, and Quinn's pulse jumps to her throat because this is _so_ how every horror movie starts off: _blond girl in hick town sliced to bits by some psycho with a chainsaw._ She shudders and totally calls Jacob Israel as her murderer-to-be, because that level of creepy merited some kind of freaky crazy.

So really, Quinn totally_ expects_ to die any second now and she's frustratingly surprised her life isn't flashing before her eyes, and all she can think of is that Ms. Pillsbury will probably like, douse the room in bleach once her bloodied remains are discovered.

As a result, she's kind of really surprised when the room is basked in low, soft light - she later thinks favors to AV geeks the must have been in order - and Brittany and Santana seem to appear out of nowhere, or the back door or something, whatever. She notices, in all her bewildered state, that Brittany's sporting a sailor hat.

Quinn's about ready to open her mouth and say something - she's still not sure what - but delicate, sweet music fills the room before she can, and the tune is something she knows. Well, something _anyone _with a childhood knows, really.

_"... She don't got a lot to say, but there's something about her, and you don't know why but you're dying to try, you wanna kiss the girl..."_

Quinn wants to step in and interrupt the two, this is just _confusing _now because while serenading her with a rendition of_ The Little Mermaid_ classic is very sweet and all, but she_ really_ doesn't want to kiss either of them and if this is their way of asking for a threesome, it still doesn't make her think twice about saying no.

But then she sees her.

She's not singing, just nervously edging her way cautiously forward, shaky breaths exhaled as she gulps in air and if Quinn could form a coherent thought she'd laugh and make fun of the girl, but as it is Quinn can't think clearly and Rachel's there and _she gets it finally._

_"Sha la la la la, my oh my, look the girl's too shy, ain't gonna kiss the girl, sha la la la la, don't stop now, don't try to hide it now... you wanna kiss the girl..."_

Rachel breaks the silence between them first, and her friends' singing become white noise in her ears because all she can hear, now, is her.

"I tried to stop them." There's an edge to her voice that suggests amusement along the apology. "Well, Brittany, mostly."

She feels a laugh work its way up to her throat, and is it just her or does it sound as jittery as her knees feel? "I'm not surprised."

At this, the brunette blinks, caught off guard. "You aren't?"

"Well, I am," Quinn amends, shrugging her shoulders passively and ducking her hands into the pockets of her cardigan like she doesn't know what to _do_ with them anymore, because at this very second she's been reduced to a bumbling, awkward, twelve year old girl with her first crush, "I just... wait... " she pauses, dawning realization etched into her features.

"You dumped Finn for me?"

She thinks she barely registers Santana mumbling an, _uh oh, _as the music room door closes quietly, towing along Brittany who's probably pouting as if her life depended on it. They're alone now, and her last sentence echoes into the air like wisps of smoke, engulfing them to the reality that life is definitely _not_ a Disney movie. She's convinced she could choke on the tension emanating from them both.

But Rachel's not saying anything, and Quinn's tired, she's _tired _of the girl closing up and not answering her about anything that's actually _important._ There's no way she can get off with being speechless because Rachel Berry is _never _speechless, and she just _knows _inherently that the words are lurking somewhere underneath the surface like a guitar waiting to be played, or a solo meant for her voice alone.

Quinn's pretty sure she'd never see the day where she'd have to really _want_ Rachel to talk, to go on and on like an endless sunset with words and metaphors and enough arrogance to make her eyes permanently roll to the back of her head. But here that moment is, and she's weakening in her resolve to stay because a voice suspiciously like Russell Fabray is whispering in her conscience if she ever wants repentance, she needs to leave,_ now._

Her feet stay rooted to the ground, however, because god dammit, if it was going to kill her, she would make the girl _talk._

"_Rachel_," she seethes, and it's sort of like they're back to being mutual enemies, because Quinn's had enough and a spineless Rachel is one infuriates her the most, "Rachel,_ fuck_, say something."

She doesn't do anything - doesn't even wince at the rare curse uttered from normally composed lips - and Quinn is eying the door with new interest until she closes her eyes. And Quinn doesn't know why, or how it helps, but it does; Rachel's eyes are shut and now the words are flowing like a shameless river running its course, and as they sink in, she thinks, the flood of feelings rushing to meet her are definitely something.

"I didn't leave Finn because of you. I left him because I've always been an honest person, and ignorance is bliss but - but when I _realized_, I was lying every time I was with him and I didn't have the excuse of not knowing."

Quinn's not sure when the space between the two closed so much, but she's breathy and Rachel trembles when she feels Quinn's words on her skin. It's doing that same thing to her stomach again, and she's not convinced if she likes it or not.

"Realized _what?_"

She needs Rachel to answer, eyes closed but heart open if she has to. She needs Rachel to really _say it,_ because only when she says it, it becomes real. Quinn's sure she's never wanted something to be real so much, and every beat of a quiet second matches the drum in her chest, thudding away and reminding her that this moment _is_ real. But Rachel needs to say it, or it'll fade into the background of her dreams instead, and while she doesn't think she'd be able to handle that, she just needs confirmation if what she's been waiting for is what _she's_ been wanting, too.

"That I want you. That I've _always _wanted you."

It's all in what Rachel says, Quinn realizes, because the rest of the world she can tune out just fine.


	4. Love The Way You Lie

_4. Love The Way You Lie - Eminem Ft. Rihanna_

The first time Jesse hits her, Rachel thinks she should have seen it coming.

Initially, the idea of an undercover relationship - something so special and just _theirs_ - seemed romantically poetic, and his boyish eyes pleading with her, well, she couldn't resist. He was Jesse St. James, her star-crossed lover: she chooses to forget in the story both Romeo and Juliet died, and stars only burn as bright as the back of her eyelids, stinging with pain and fear.

She doesn't blame him, his scholarship is counting on Vocal Adrenaline's success, he's stressed, he's overworked. It was a one time thing.

So the first time Jesse hits her, Rachel lies when she walks into Glee rehearsal; everyone can agree mutually that Rachel Berry trying to perform a particularly difficult choreography move in her bedroom could reasonably lead to the bruise tainting her face, and they roll her eyes in jest.

Except Quinn. She's not laughing, and it's making the brunette nervous.

* * *

She's not sure when it became a cycle.

But she's sure she loves him, lust for violence and all. Rachel wants to ask him, sometimes, why.

Jesse always repents in broken tears and promises of change, though, so she doesn't. She's convinced _he_ doesn't even know he's lying to her.

It makes waking up in the morning to an aching body a little easier.

* * *

Rachel's late from Glee practice - accidentally, probably. What counts is that it isn't the first time, it's an _again_ and Jesse _hates_ repeat offenses.

When he watches her from his car, walking idly with a blond by her side, touching her arm every so often and smiling, his fists clench. His knuckles start to strain against the white stretch of skin, itching,_ begging_ for release. The growling monster in his chest is in agony, barely satiated by promise of redemption later on. It becomes a conscious choice to soothe the animal within or risk drowning in its fury should he hold back on the girl that holds whatever semblance of his humanity in her hands.

Jesse tries. He really does. But not all princesses need to be saved, and not all princes are meant to slay beasts.

* * *

He hates feeling like the only time he feels alive is when he's the artist painting blue and black all over her skin.

It's a delicate craft: to paint her, to twist fragile limbs in ways not meant to be twisted, the symphony of a sob - from her when it starts, from him when it ends.

This is just another routine, a rehearsal grained into the very back of his mind that screams focus, focus, _focus._ It's all interchangeable.

He's not sure what this art is counting on, but it's certainly not a scholarship to UCLA.

* * *

She knows. Somehow Quinn Fabray inherently_ knows, _and it makes everything so much more apparent. Suddenly Rachel can't remember when she_ wasn't_ wearing sweaters in May, but Quinn's managed to shove her into the janitor's closet at lunch one day and they're _much_ too close for her to think of anything else.

"I'm so fucking _sick_ of looking at you, Berry." Her voice speaks venom and Rachel wants to shrink away because honestly, Quinn had seemed to be getting increasingly nicer towards her, but maybe that was a delusion, too. Real and imaginary, her parallel universes formerly associated with Broadway dreams and Finn Hudson, are now intertwined into something else; something that only whispers a language of hurt and fear, a fluency she'd never thought she'd ever know.

"Q-Quinn?" But Rachel has to make sure. It's_ Quinn,_ and while Jesse has become predictable, Quinn is not, has never been, and she has to make _sure _the girl means it. "I'm sorry - "

"_No!_" Rachel's said the exact thing she doesn't want to hear, and Quinn's hiss is harsher now. "Don't be _sorry!_" She grips Rachel's arms and pushes her back against the door, preventing her escape; a sharp intake of breath tells her exactly what she wants to know, exactly where the portrait of pain lies across her body.

"Am I hurting you?" she asks, but she can practically feel Rachel bite down on her lip, chest rising and falling in practiced routine._ Routine._ Quinn wants to throw up.

_"Am I hurting you?"_ Quinn tries again, because she knows she's not letting either of them leave this stupid closet until she admits it. She _has_ to, because watching this go on any longer is the worst kind of torture she's ever endured; it's been ages since she's seen the girl's smile, longer since she's heard her sing anything but a broken melody.

But Rachel refuses to relent, and worse, she seems to grow even smaller as her shoulders fall - Quinn releases her hold on the shorter girl, feeling like her hands are lit on fire; she doesn't, and decides she could _never,_ understand what anyone could gain from inflicting this kind of damage.

"Please," whispers Quinn, aware that while _Quinn Fabray_ has never begged for anything in her life before, Quinn _now_, formerly knocked up Cheerio, currently Gleek in denial, constantly in love with this _stupid girl_, is not proud enough to stop herself from anything that will set the other girl free.

The silence stretches into eons, until -

"It doesn't matter," answers Rachel quietly, so quiet Quinn thinks it might be all in her head, "if I say so or not. It doesn't change anything." She pauses for a brief moment. "What do you want me to _do?_"

That's when Quinn is _definitely _much too close, heart hammering against her chest and foreheads touching. In some delirious, hazed state of her mind, Rachel wonders if what she wants her to do is _kiss_ her, right now, in her fucked up world, just to ravage the lines of fantasy and reality again, feel the steady Earth _un_steady against her feet. Her breath is hot on her face, and Rachel isn't surprised to learn then that she _wants_ to kiss her, because this is all some sort of messed up game anyway and eventually all plots have twists, don't they?

But Quinn doesn't kiss her. Instead, she says one thing that will change the entire ending of this sick little game.

"Fight."

She does.

* * *

Yes. She was different. There was no doubting that, he knew, as he watched the corners of her mouth move beyond a catatonic state.

Jesse had broken her, but the flicker in her eyes say different.

He can't hear what she's saying, but he can feel the hard shove against his chest, rousing the sleeping monster once again. Her lips are moving and he can't hear anything beyond the dull roar in his ears, and his hands are on her, all over her. It's no different than usual.

But it is. Jesse feels her voice burst through his consciousness as their limbs dance in a dangerous tango, scratching, kicking, biting, pushing. It's clumsy, not routine at all, and Rachel is _blazing_ with feeling.

"No. No. _No!_"

He drops his hands and stares. He doesn't know the next part of the dance or what the orchestra's about to play next.

He's lost, lost, _lost._

* * *

Jesse St. James is not a monster. Rachel Berry will always stand by this notion, and years later, when old age sheds into deep maturity, Quinn will agree.

As it is in the present, Quinn doesn't even look at him when she bursts into the house after Rachel's call, duffel bag in hand and ready to help her pack up anything she's left at his house over the months. She's shaking, and she knows if she's left in a room alone with him that she'll _beat_ the creature inside of him that lay dormant for years, rising to cripple the girl both of them know deserve better. Relaxing only when Rachel touches her arm and tells her to get her favorite McKinley High sweatshirt upstairs, she nods stiffly; Quinn trusts the organ ticking blood into her veins will tell her if anything happens, but the way the older boy _looks,_ crumpled against a corner and holding his knees, she knows she won't have to be too anxious.

She's leaving, Rachel knows that with finality. But she's not leaving like _this._

Rachel lets him cry into her arms, even lets him go on his knees and beg. Words like "love," "next time," and "baby" echo in her head and pull at the strings on her heart, but she smiles softly at him and he knows it's no use. There's not enough words in the English dictionary to adequately express how much self loathing he harbors for himself, but it's as if Rachel senses this, and kneels down in front of him, hand on his cheek, eyes wistful but strong in their decision.

She loves him. He loves her. It's not enough. She can't save him.

And she's not going to let either of them die trying.

* * *

UCLA has pretty decent counseling, something akin to geniuses with the compassion of saints.

He sends her a letter once, seeking closure.

The fact she doesn't reply is all the closure he needs.

Jesse's confident she's happy, wherever she is, with Quinn.

* * *

Rachel glances at her bedside clock reading two a.m., and Quinn yawns from her sleep, blearily opening her eyes.

"Hey... Quinn?"

Quinn's arms are draped over her waist and she dips in closer, resting her chin on the girl's shoulder.

"Mmm...yeah?"

It's been almost a year. The amount of patience and understanding Quinn's shown her is more than astounding, it's pretty amazing.

"I've come to the conclusion I'm in love with you."

Rachel can feel her smile.

"I love you, too... but you're still making breakfast tomorrow."


End file.
